


Pristine

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Javert Lives, M/M, Trick or Treat: Chocolate Box, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-23 04:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12498828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: “I like you,” Valjean declares, breathless and brave. “Everything you do.”“Mmm.” The sound Javert makes is thoughtful. He rests a hand on Valjean’s knee, fingertips grazing the inside of his thigh just so. “Your suit though. Would be a shame to spoil it.”





	Pristine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellamason](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/gifts).



“There are things about me you don’t know.”

Javert’s mellow with drink, relaxed into his chair with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

It’s good to see him like this. It always warms something inside Valjean. Perhaps it’s just because he’s so very human in those moments. Nothing threatening about him at all: just an aging man with greying hair and hands that look as if they’ve never held a gun.

“Mm hmm,” Valjean says in amusement. “Is this where you tell me that you’ve secretly started watching reality TV?”

Javert raises his tumbler to take another sip of whiskey. The lamp next to him makes his silvery hair shine.

Something tightens in Valjean’s stomach, and he greets the sensation with a small, disbelieving smile.

Javert’s really very good-looking. He’s never noticed before, in all those years. Somehow it’s impossible to unsee it now.

“You think you know me. You think you’ve got me all figured out. But you don’t, Valjean. There are things that would shock you if you knew.”

Again that small smile. The warmth inside Valjean’s stomach twists and turns with longing, as if it’s a living thing with a mind all of its own.

“Shock me?” He voices the words softly, tasting them. It’s true that Javert has done things that have shocked him. But then, it’s not so hard to shock a virgin of sixty years.

“I don’t think so,” he says after a moment. He returns Javert’s smile. “I like the sex. It’s good.”

At first, even saying the word made him blush. But then, it was a lot of things to learn all at once, for a man his age. And it wasn’t as if his inexperience had displeased Javert at the time.

Valjean takes a sip from his own glass, cherishing the smoothness of the alcohol in his mouth, the warm burn as it goes down his throat.

“Just sitting here with you talking about sex should be shocking in itself,” he then says, filled with affection as he watches Javert. “But I got used to it, didn’t I?”

Javert leans forward a little.

Valjean reaches out unthinkingly, laughing as he frames Javert’s face with his hands. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind being shocked. You could try me.”

Javert’s pupils are dilated. Is it arousal or the whiskey? Valjean can’t tell, but he figures it doesn’t matter. Not when Javert’s looking at him like that, all easy confidence and amusement.

It makes Valjean so fond. He knows Javert feels like a deviant compared to him—but he also thinks that Javert’s quite enjoying that feeling.

Which is silly, because Valjean’s inexperienced, not a prude. And with Javert, everything’s good. The anal sex. The blowjobs. Even the time Javert made him undress in the living room, just so that he could stare at him for a good, long time before they finally made it to the bed.

Javert might be way more experienced than he is, but that doesn’t mean that Valjean’s scared of him.

“Try you?” Javert smells like the whiskey. He also smells like musk, and like his aftershave. It’s a good mix. It’s familiar. And it makes something coil inside Valjean, arousal making him stiffen inside his white trousers—just from that scent. Just from Javert being close.

He’s learned not to be embarrassed by that, even though his first instinct is to cross his legs. Instead he forces himself to sit calmly, letting his knees spread further even when Javert looks at him with knowing eyes.

“I like you,” Valjean declares, breathless and brave. “Everything you do.”

“Mmm.” The sound Javert makes is thoughtful. He rests a hand on Valjean’s knee, fingertips grazing the inside of his thigh just so. “Your suit though. Would be a shame to spoil it.”

Now Valjean flushes a little.

“It’s already spoiled. Here—a smudge from earlier.”

“Not a practical color.” Javert’s smile widens, his eyes full of heat. “But I like it on you. I like knowing that you’re not as pristine as you want to make everyone believe.”

“I know you know that.” Valjean feels warm, full of trust, enjoying Javert’s playful mood. Sometimes it’s good to know that they can do this now. They can be playful and tease. He wouldn’t trust anyone else in such a way… but with Javert, for some reason it’s easy now.

Perhaps because Javert’s not as pristine anymore either, and they both know it.

“We’ll have to go outside for it.” Javert’s breath is hot against his face, his words low. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“You think I’ll be shocked.”

Javert’s silence is answer enough. Javert’s eyes are laughing, but there’s something sharp and fierce in the heat of his gaze now, and it makes something inside Valjean go all liquid and needy.

“That’s okay,” Valjean finds himself murmuring, “with the walls, no one would see.”

When he bought the house, it was, in fact, because of the wall around the garden. He never imagined that one day, that privacy would become useful in a different way…

Even now, the thought makes yearning tighten inside him with a sweet, sharp pain. He wants it all now. With Javert, he wants it all. Would give it all. After so many years, he doesn’t want to hold back anymore. He has no idea if this is what people mean when they speak of love—but it’s what he has, and he doesn’t want to let go of it ever again.

Javert gives him an amused look, his mouth wry.

When he stands, he leads Valjean outside into the garden, towering above him, all long legs and slim hips. Javert’s still wearing black dress pants and a blue shirt. He looks good in it, and sometimes Valjean only accepts Pontmercy’s invitations because of how nice Javert looks in formal wear. Sometimes he wonders what he looks like next to this epitome of white respectability: the bald guy with a prison tattoo and brown skin against his white suit. Do they think that Javert’s the sort to go for an exotic lover? Do they take one look at him, Pontmercy’s colleagues and business partners, and think _ex-con_ —

He bites back the thought, focusing on Javert’s ass shifting beneath the tight black pants.

It _is_ a good look on him. And that’s the only thing that matters here, right now. Everything else can wait.

Javert’s still chuckling when he presses him against the wall outside, one hand light against his chest. It’s enough to keep Valjean in place—it doesn’t take more these days. No handcuffs needed. Unless that’s what Javert wants to try…?

For a moment, Valjean’s surprised that the thought isn’t unwelcome. He doesn’t know when he’s come to trust Javert like this—but then, if you trust someone, what other way is there than to do it completely?

And it’s good to trust. It’s good to enjoy the sensation of that hand against his skin. Valjean loves everything about it, from the warmth to the rasp of calluses to the way Javert’s nails are always immaculately clean.

Above them, the sky’s already dark. Out here in the suburbs, it’s sometimes possible to see the stars, but with the light still spilling out of the windows, he can’t make out anything but darkness and the pale blur of the moon above them.

But that’s okay, because the light illuminates Javert’s face, and Valjean loves that expression on it—thoughtful, confident, aroused.

He reaches out, finding Javert hard already. He opens his trousers and frees him as Javert watches.

Valjean doesn’t mind being watched like this, not by Javert. He doesn’t mind touching him either. He’s shied away from this sort of thing in prison; he was strong enough people didn’t want to mess with him, and it was never anything he wanted.

Now, with Javert, his cock is sometimes all he can think about when Javert’s not there: the way it feels like when it’s hard, the way it goes hard for _him_ , the way it’s not threatening at all.

“I like this,” he says, slowly stroking Javert, who moans in appreciation. “I like touching your dick.”

He can even talk about it now without blushing. What else can Javert have in mind that’s going to shock him? Then he remembers what Javert said about his suit.

“Do you want to come on me? Is that it?” He can manage to say that, too, without stumbling. It does make him blush a little, but only because they’re outside, and maybe, if someone is standing on the other side of the wall right now, they’d be able to hear.

But it’s not enough to make him want to stop. Not with Javert being so hot and hard in his hand.

“You can, you know.” He smiles at Javert, still stroking him. “It’ll have to be cleaned anyway. It’s okay.”

He’ll have to find a different dry cleaner, but he doesn’t tell Javert that.

Now Javert leans in a little. His eyes are still dark, pupils wide, and when he kisses him, his tongue rasps against Valjean’s in a way that makes Valjean moan with breathless hunger.

“I better, if I want to do this,” Javert murmurs when he pulls back. There’s still some of that sharp, considering look in him. “That’s not it though. But keep touching me.”

Valjean can feel his own heart start racing in his chest as he watches Javert. There’s all the hundred signs of arousal he now knows so intimately well: the way Javert’s eyes slide halfway shut, the way his breath speeds up, the way his hips thrust into his grip, just a little. He gleams with perspiration, and Valjean wants to rub his face against the stubble on his cheeks.

Instead, he continues to stroke Javert, enjoying the way he feels in his hand: all hot, twitching arousal. It’s… earthy, he supposes is the word for it. Maybe a little filthy. But it’s okay, because being filthy with Javert is okay. With Javert, it’s all warmth and the heat of touch spreading through him until he wants to laugh for the pure joy of it.

Javert groans, pushing into his fist demandingly. Obliging, Valjean tightens his fingers, rubbing his thumb against where wetness is already spreading—and then, a heartbeat later, Javert’s coming. Spurts of it sputter all over Valjean’s shirt, one string of white hitting his throat.

Javert’s panting, one hand against the wall now to hold himself up, and that moment of his exhaustion after the act is enough to make Valjean want to draw him in for another kiss.

Instead, after a moment, Javert straightens. He’s flushed, but there’s still that look in his eyes. It’s even sexier now, for some reason—maybe because Valjean’s the one who’s aching with arousal, his cock relentlessly hard in his pants.

“Done?” Valjean asks gently, and Javert laughs breathlessly.

“Still think you’re up to it? You might not like that part of me.”

“There’s no part of you I don’t like,” Valjean says like a fool, only he feels breathless and so in love that it hurts.

“Yeah?” There’s something challenging in Javert’s eyes—or maybe it’s a hint of insecurity.

Or maybe it’s just that he’s a lot more drunk than Valjean realized, because a moment later, Javert grips hold of his softened cock and starts to piss.

Starts to piss straight on Valjean, that is.

For a second, Valjean stays frozen, overwhelmed by the sensation of warm liquid soaking into his trousers, which are now sticking warm and hot to his skin. It makes him shudder, utterly confused—and shocked, a little. Javert was right about that.

Incongruously, it’s that realization that breaks the spell.

He swallows as he looks down. The sight makes him blush brightly. There’s Javert cock, still a nice size even in his large hand, even when it’s soft. And it’s releasing a stream of yellow against his thigh.

Javert’s pissing on him.

He thinks it again, strangely breathless, something fluttering in his stomach. He’s not quite sure if it’s revulsion.

It should be. And Javert told him that he’d be shocked.

It’s hard to wrap his mind around the thought.

He takes a shuddering breath. When he raises his eyes to Javert’s, they’re challenging, dark and sharp—but also, there’s that hint of insecurity again.

What did it take Javert to admit to such a thing? Was it just the drink—or is it something he’s thought about before?

Either way, there are a lot of things one grows used to in jail. It didn’t leave him with very high expectations of hygiene, for one thing. Which is perhaps why ever since then, he’s kept his clothes and his house fastidiously clean.

Still. Being pissed on is something he can live with, he supposes. But why would Javert want to do such a thing?

“I’m not shocked,” is what Valjean says, instead of asking _why_. _Why_ is what he _should_ ask—but maybe it was the right choice, because now something inside Javert seems to relax a little, his mouth giving Valjean the small smile that still makes something inside him twist with helpless need.

“I like the thought of it all over you. My piss on your skin. Marking you like a dog,” Javert says, a little breathless, giving him the explanation he hadn’t asked for. He’s glad to have it nevertheless.

Valjean’s still aware of the trickle of piss. It’s warm and steady against his thigh. Now that the shock at it is receding a little, it’s not that bad—the warmth’s weird, but also strangely nice. It’s not really hot, even though it feels that way. It’s the exact temperature of Javert’s body.

It is degrading, he supposes—though that doesn’t fit with the way Javert’s looking at him right now: a little smug, a little possessive, definitely horny. He doesn’t look like the people who’ll hear that he’s been in prison, who’ll look at his skin or the half-faded prison tattoo, their lips twisting as they turn away.

He doesn’t quite understand why he’s doing it, but after a moment, Valjean’s unbuttoning his shirt, fingers trembling. He doesn’t meet Javert’s eyes—he can’t take his eyes of Javert’s cock, the way it rests soft in Javert’s large hand, the steady stream of warm piss.

Valjean pushes his shirt back when he’s done, baring his stomach. And then—then he reaches out for Javert’s cock, his fingers wrapping around Javert’s hand as he makes him point up a little.

The muscles of his stomach contract as it hits his skin. It’s wet, and the warmth is weird—but it’s not bad. It’s Javert’s piss, he reminds himself—and perhaps it should be disgusting, but right now, it’s not. It’s just filthy, and weirdly intimate.

“You can mark me,” Valjean says after a moment, when he lets go again. “I don’t mind.”

He takes a shivering breath. His cock is still half hard in his trousers. They cling to his erection now, wet and warm. The feeling’s much like if he’d wet himself. But Javert’s still not finished, the stream of his piss thick and strong as it splashes against his stomach, and Valjean takes another deep breath.

Hesitantly, he reaches out.

Then his fingers hit the stream. He flinches at first—the warmth _is_ weird. But Javert groans, and it really doesn’t feel any different to touching warm water.

Only this isn’t water. He knows it isn’t.

Shakily, he raises his hand. He presses it to his chest, at last meeting Javert’s eyes as he rubs it into his skin.

“There. You’re all over me now.” The words come out as little more than a whisper. Something inside his stomach is still shifting and turning, but his cock is aching as well, and he doesn’t want to think. At that moment, he just wants to be Javert’s, wants Javert to kiss him, wants the burn of Javert’s stubble and Javert’s aftershave rubbed all over him.

The stream slows to a trickle at last, then to a stop.

It’s hard to breathe. He’s wet all over. He can’t look away from the gleam of Javert’s eyes. When he finally looks down, shyly, there are large stains on his trousers and his shirt.

He looks at Javert again. His hand is still pressed to his chest, fingers wet. He’d lick it off his fingers too, he thinks faintly. He’d do it for Javert. Not to impress him, or because he’s afraid of losing him, or anything like that.

Just because it’s _Javert_. Because the way Javert smiles fills him with warmth. Because he can’t fall asleep these days without the heat of Javert against his skin.

Because Javert’s filthy sometimes, but that’s so different to all the grime and filth of his past.

Valjean doesn’t quite know where to go from here, or what to say next. But this was Javert’s idea, and in these things, he’s content to follow where Javert leads. He’s got a lifetime of trust he hasn’t used before. He’s willing to use it all now.

Javert smiles, then leans in. His beard scrapes against Valjean’s cheek, and it’s enough to make him shiver with need.

Javert’s mouth twitches. “Look how filthy you are. How filthy I’ve made you,” he murmurs, voice low. “Some more won’t hurt now, I suppose.”

His hand presses against Valjean’s trousers, and Valjean nearly faints with relief. He breathes in the scent of Javert’s aftershave—it’s cheap and familiar, and it’s mingled now with the musk of Javert’s arousal and the acrid scent of piss. He’s trembling so hard that he’s coming after the first few strokes, spilling himself with a muffled sob into his soaked trousers, Javert’s face hot against his own.

When Javert pulls back at last, some of the sharpness has left his eyes, and the darkness in them is now that of tiredness, his smile warm and satisfied.

“I told you there are things you don’t know about me,” he says, and then he laughs softly, raising his hand to tenderly run a fingertip along the line of Valjean’s mouth. “But I’ll pay for the dry cleaner.”


End file.
